


Capriccio in B Flat Major

by Novels



Series: Reprise [4]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, M/M, Right?, after some angst we all need some adorable fluff, book-verse, dumb people in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 09:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20289370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novels/pseuds/Novels
Summary: After Elio almost leaves Oliver for fear of being hurt again, he needs to find his own way to express what he truly feels.This is a direct continuation of Echoes and won't make much sense if read as a stand-alone piece.





	Capriccio in B Flat Major

**Author's Note:**

> I have very soft feelings for Elio.  
He is precious and needs to be protected at all costs.
> 
> Enjoy!

Always, Oliver said, and it felt so honest and true that I let myself believe it. Even though I could not chase away the fear he would leave me again someday, and his promises couldn't either. I was hurt too deeply when I lost him, and I would forever dread the idea of going through that pain once more. But last time I had let it happen, I had not even tried to put up a token fight. Our twenty years apart had taught me how to stand up for myself, how to take what I needed, how to stand my ground. If Oliver ever changed his mind again, I would not let him go with my congratulations and best wishes for the future. 

I rested my head against his shoulder, feeling drained. It had been a long time since I last felt so deeply about anything, anyone. Everything seemed to be  _ more _ when Oliver was around. The sun brighter, the air warmer, the grass greener. His scent had not changed, and it engulfed me. I breathed in deeply, rubbing my nose against his skin. It still felt a bit itchy from crying. My emotions felt like a rollercoaster -- what a worn-out simile. True nonetheless. Typical of me to sabotage my happiness with worry. I guess it could not be avoided. My parents raised me with too much romantic literature and too little Verga. I couldn't blame them, really. There's very little poetry in Realism. My mother had loathed translating  _ I Malavoglia _ into French.

My father had taught me to feel fully, and that meant welcoming happiness and sadness, worry and elation, surprise and heartbreak. He had taught me to let emotions run through me, to taste them on my tongue, to let them submerge me but not drown me. And he had made sure I had known how to express them, no matter how silently, no matter how shyly. Words were not my medium. I found pale substitutes for my own words in the pages of great authors. I used those to express what mattered. Better to speak or to die? I wasn't very good at either, it seemed. But my parents had made sure I found a way to talk to the world, and I could see my favourite language resting against a wall, inconspicuous, so far unnoticed, an unexpected presence in Oliver's flat.

I untangled myself from his arms and walked to the piano. Oliver didn't play, to my knowledge, and I looked at him as I brushed a hand on the lid and opened it, a silent question in my eyes. 

"Michael plays," he said, "and I wanted him to be able to practice when he's with me." 

I nodded and I sat down, my fingers hovering on the keys. What to play, after all this time? What to say, after all this time?

As I heard Oliver walk up to the piano, his steps falling softly on the tiles, a memory flowed up, so precious, so fragile. I thought you didn't like it. I thought you didn't like me.

My fingers pressed the keys, the melody familiar after all these years, no variations this time. I played the way Elio Perlman would play it. Not the world-renowned artist, though. Elio Perlman the seventeen-year-old boy still in me, brimming with hope, with want, with trepidation.

Young Bach, dedicated to his brother, his mentor, his friend, on the verge of a journey that would take him away from his family.

Oliver hadn't known, of course. I hadn't even picked that capriccio on purpose back then. It had just been a fitting coincidence. 

"I haven't heard this in twenty years," he murmured. I turned to look at him, letting my hands rest on my lap.

"I haven't played this in twenty years."

He sat next to me on the small bench and caressed my cheek, his thumb tracing the rim of my cheekbone. "I wanted to kiss you so much back then. You were such a tease," he said with the hint of a smile in his deep voice. "Can I do that now?"

I nodded, lost in the depth of his eyes, of his voice, of his tenderness. Our lips brushed together in the sweetest touch, barely even there, exchanging breaths more than kisses. I felt the anticipation, the thrill that always comes with knowing that you are about to get kissed, and that it will be meaningful. Oliver traced my lips with the tip of his tongue, teasing, delaying it a bit more, stretching the moment as I waited for him to close the distance. I felt like floating, yet at the same time, I couldn't feel more grounded as he finally brought our lips together and kissed me properly. 

My body responded to the touch and I leaned towards him, driven by raw desire. Oliver pulled me closer on the bench, wrapping his arm around me, holding me as he kissed me with unrestrained passion, desire, love. 

Love. I could feel it run through my body, his body. I have always known, both of us have always known what that perfect complicity had been. Now we had acknowledged it. I could think it, I could name it. For once, I could use a word, that word, without it feeling empty of meaning. We loved each other, and we knew it, and we said it, and kissing Oliver now felt just like before, but more honest than ever. 

His hand was in my hair as he kissed and kissed me, famished, adoring, demanding. I let my hands roam on his back, feeling his muscles tense, his spine arch as I pushed against him, kneeling on the bench as I looked for a better angle. We should move this somewhere more comfortable sooner rather than later, I thought. Then I said it, my lips still against Oliver's, unwilling to move away just yet. I could feel him smile as he placed small pecks on my mouth. 

"Are you sure?" he asked softly. I loved him more for that.

"Yes, I am sure," I answered, and this time I really was. He nodded and stood up, holding out his hand as I stood. I took it and placed a small kiss on his knuckles. That made him chuckle lightly. He kissed me once more, quick but overwhelming, before he started walking towards the bedroom. I followed him.

****

I had forgot how incredible it felt to just lie in Oliver's arms, my ear against his heart, listening to it beat, playing melodies with the same rhythm in my head. I was basking in the peace I was feeling, in the pure happiness of just being with him, unrestrained, no more secrets between us. No more goodbyes looming in the distance. Oliver had one arm around me and one covering his eyes. He was still breathing deeply. He looked positively wrecked. I placed a wet kiss on his jaw, open-mouthed, lazy. 

"You OK?" I asked, and he moved his arm just enough to peek at me with one eye. He smiled fondly and me and hummed affirmatively. 

"I think I still need a moment before I can feel my toes," he said. His voice was impossibly low and I could feel his chest vibrate under my cheek. There was humor in it, a trace of the easy banter we were so used to exchange after we had made love. He turned towards me with an exaggerated groan and I chuckled as he drew me in again, his arms holding me tight. I tangled our legs together, pressing impossibly close. I sighed contentedly and closed my eyes. 

It was almost time for dinner, soon we would have to get up and see to that, but for the moment I let myself be held, safe in the arms of the man I loved, choosing him once more, forever.

**Author's Note:**

> For those wondering, Elio plays _[Capriccio on the departure of a beloved brother](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Capriccio_on_the_departure_of_a_beloved_brother)_ for Oliver. It is said that Bach wrote it for his brother, who was about to leave his family in order to get a new post as an oboist. Bach was essentially raised by his brother and admired him deeply. Gotta love the fun facts about classical music. 
> 
> Also, you might be able to tell I'm not particularly fond of poor Giovanni Verga, Italy's greatest realist author. No matter how much my professor tried, I couldn't (and still can't) find anything poetic in his works. My loss, I guess.


End file.
